


Bowled Over

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26319760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By MJ.Mallets, beer and business upon the front lawn at Brandy Hall.
Relationships: Merry Brandybuck/Pippin Took
Kudos: 1
Collections: Least Expected





	Bowled Over

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: These characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs.  
> I have merely borrowed them for these adventures and will never make a  
> cent from them.  
> Feedback: Would be wonderful!  
> Story Notes: The events herein follow those in [Half Past Nine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26319961).

When Gorhendad Oldbuck of the Marish first laid eyes on the tempting outcrop known as Buck Hill, in those far away days when Brandy Hall was merely a jot in his resourceful imagination, there is no doubt that he knew a good thing when he saw it. Almost 200 feet high and three quarters of a mile wide, it fronted the banks of the Brandywine like a mighty bulwark, daring the elements to waste themselves against its sturdy embankments. From the little farm across the river, where he worked all day with his cousin plucking mushrooms like mishapen bulbs from their broad earthen beds, Gorhendad thought mostly of how deep one could tunnel in a hill like that and still manage to provide fresh air. And how many wells it would take to supply all of the rooms that had begun to furnish themselves in his dreams. As for the number of kitchens necessary in a warren that size... Very likely that thought had set his young heart pounding almost as much as the sight of dear Maisie Bloomwood. 

As the sixth son of Big Gabendad Oldbuck, Gorhendad was due only minor expectations, but by dint of sheer hard work and good luck, plus the fact that the Hill lay in that strange land across the river where few hobbits in their right mind ever set foot, he eventually won the right to claim Buck Hill for his own. And in the year 740 SR, Gorhendad changed his last name to Brandybuck and hollowed out the first rooms of what was to become the most celebrated warren east of the Three Farthing Stone: the extraordinary and infamous Brandy Hall. 

It took young Brandybuck a good year to make the first rooms liveable, but by that time there were four bedrooms, three storerooms, a parlor, a kitchen, a pantry and six chimneys. Legend has it that when the last door had been hung and the pantry stuffed to the ceiling, he looked around, crossed his arms and muttered the immortal phrase that set the tone for future generations: "This place wants babies!" Reliable witnesses said later that dear Maisie Bloomwood blushed a delightful Cottage Rose when she heard those words. But no matter the tale or the gossip, it was entirely true that within the month, she was the proud Mrs. Gorhendad Brandybuck. 

Six bouncing Brandy-babies later, the Hall had grown to thirty rooms, two kitchens, three aunts, six uncles, ten cousins, and enough children so that, any morning he chose, Master Brandybuck could rise for the day and barely get an accurate count of his own youngsters, much less anyone elses, by sundown. 

And now, more than 600 years later, the Brandybucks throve like veritable weeds in their considerable haven, held by the inhabitants of the Shire if not in reverence, at least in awe. Brandy Hall now boasted 126 rooms (some said 130), with the current residents shifting hither and yon depending upon season or inclination. Schoolrooms had been added over the years, as had dormitories for the tweeners who seemed always to outnumber the adults for some reason. It was generally a happy place and a busy one, with lawns and gardens bordering the Brandywine, a huge Park at the north end with one more on the sloping summit, and a great many greenhouses, vegetable gardens, flower plots (with attending bees), grain fields, stables, pastures, and outbuildings, scattered in a comfortable fashion between the Hill and the Forest one way, and up and down the river the other. 

It was on a very fine afternoon during the present time that one of those lawns was being put to flagrant use. In fact, it would be fair to say that it was covered, if not crawling, with Brandybucks, Burrows, Bolgers and other various and sundry relations, whether publicly acknowledged or not. The afternoon was sunny and warm and perfect for a grand game of Mallet Ball... 

* * *

Eyes narrowed in concentration, Pippin lifted his mallet and swung. With a resounding crack, the little wooden ball sailed through the hoop, hit the 25 point Corner Stake, rebounded at just the right angle to send it hurling through the last hoop, and rolled with perfect accuracy to a stop against the Triple Point Stake. 

"That's it! We've got them now!" Freddy shook his mallet in the air with a little jig of triumph and stepped forward to address his own green ball. 

Grinning round at the rest of the little team, Pippin tossed his mallet onto the rack and went off to discover where Merry had got to and whether any lunch was involved. Sure enough, his cousin had found a secluded spot under the Party Canopy and filled the end of a table with half a chicken, a broiled trout, a generous portion of squash and turnip coddle, four apple-rhubarb tarts, two mounds of lemon custard, some orange cremes and the corner of a Springhoney cheesecake. Right in the center of this modest repast stood a triumphant pitcher of gingered beer, the least purpose of which was to keep one's busy palate clear. 

"Well, it's about time. Uncle Milo was starting to eye the chicken." Crossing his eyes, Merry lifted a tall mug brimfull of beer in one hand while pointing a large drumstick at the corner of his mouth with the other. Cackling gleefully, Pippin slid into the nearest chair and for some minutes they ate in silence, watching the game, savoring the feast and exchanging warm glances full of promise and mischief. 

When nothing was left but a sliver of turnip, a mouthful of lemon custard and the dregs of the beer, Merry folded his napkin and sat back with a sigh. "I suppose we shall have to leave soon. It's a long march to Tuckborough and we'll want to stop in to see Frodo and Sam." 

Pippin propped his chin on one hand and frowned at his empty plate. "I truly don't wish to leave yet. I love it here. And I love _you_ here." He sat back and stretched, straining the shiny pearl buttons on his waistcoat almost to bursting. "But then, I love you anywhere. Or at least, I think I'd like to _try_ to, if you've no objection." He grinned, scooped up a fingerful of custard and slowly slipped it into his mouth. 

Merry stared, his eyes following the wet pink finger as it slid back out of Pippin's mouth. "No... um, no objection. From me. Eh, do you think... we could go..." 

The sudden shadow that loomed up beside them without a jot of warning made them both jump. Short and round, it was, and topped by an amazing assortment of extraordinary mounds and bulges. "There you are, you rascals, and a fine chase you've led me. I thought I should have to search every bedroom in the Hall." 

Great Aunt Fresythia steadied her new hat and pulled out the chair next to Pippin, who presently found himself eye to eye with a fresh red potato, a large bunch of asparagus, and a row of Buckland sprouts. With a little snort, the elderly hobbit folded her arms and glared round the table. "What in this good world did you eat, the entire kitchen? Well, I've no doubt Cook has run away, since I'm sure her cupboard is as bare as these plates and we shall all be obliged to..." 

But what they would all be obliged to do was lost to history as, in a bright flash of green, a little wooden ball came whizzing by Great Aunt Fresythia's hat, neatly decapitating the twist of leeks standing vanguard on the front brim. She sat very still in the pregnant pause that followed, then turned her head slowly and considered the group of youngsters standing frozen across the lawn, their wide-eyed faces paler than the fan of thinly sliced turnip tucked behind the beheaded leeks. A strange little smile quirked one side of her mouth for a moment. Then, shaking her head gently, she lifted one graceful hand and announced, quite clearly, "Fifty points, me...", and turned back to the table, the saucy bunch of asparagus bouncing gently against the fresh red potato. 

"Now, as I was saying... It occured to me, when last we talked, that you two want some looking after. So, since all hope of food is gone, you must come walk with me. I have a thing or two to say and it requires distance from this cheerfully dangerous rabble. And mind you, there's an arm for each!" 

As Merry came round the table, Pippin popped up and slipped his hand under one warm, plump arm, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the contraption on Aunt Fresythia's head. If her party hat had been an amazing sight, it's replacement was a fright of a different sort. Some clever hand had woven string and fine twine around and through a large straw bonnet so that, instead of boasting an entire garden of flowers, it appeared as if something resembling a vegetable bin had landed on her head. He wondered what would happen if she sneezed. 

The elderly hobbit took firm hold of both their arms and began to walk. "Now, to business. You'll be needing a place to call your own. A young couple like yourselves shouldn't have to spend your early years tripping over everyone elses babies. No, no, let me finish! I don't doubt you'll grow very tired of explaining to some doting mama why her plump young daughter can't possibly make you the happiest of hobbits ever and not to pop her buttons trying. They're all ninnies anyway, every one of them. So what I've done..." 

"But... But..." Pippin quailed a little under Great Aunt Fresythia's stare, then blurted on, "I mean, how would you know... I mean, why would you think... we even needed... I mean..." Pippin had grown so used to blushing over the last two days that he hardly noticed now that he did so. 

"I'll have you know, Peregrin Took, that my sources are quite reliable. Why, the day you both ran Old Bucket's goats up the back stairs, I knew immediately..." 

Merry gasped. "No! Aunt, that was an accident. Really...!" 

Great Aunt Fresythia merely snorted, setting the radishes to the rear of the hatbrim dancing. "I have a finger on most things in the Shire, my daring young lads. I have been a place or two myself, after all! Why, the folks up north of here could tell you..." She stopped and her cheeks pinked up, setting off the trio of carrots dangling next her ear. 

"Master Brandybuck, and you too, Master Took! I am not flapping my tongue to cool my teeth. So pay attention. I am quite aware that you are not dancing half a jig here and you need a place of your own. So I'm giving you one. It's been sitting vacant this last year with only a caretaker to see to its needs. But it's a fine little cottage and deserves more than that." 

They had reached a long wooden bench perched on the edge of the lawn overlooking the Brandywine and she spead her skirts and sat, wiggling a finger to the northwest. "It's right up the road, so to speak. About five miles from Frogmorton. Within easy reach of Brandy Hall or the Tookland. And you can keep an eye on your unpredictable Mr. Baggins from there." 

She folded her hands together, glanced at both their faces and gave a rusty little chuckle. "To tell you the truth, it's not precisely a house nor a hole. More a little of both, as the the parlor, the dining room, the bedrooms and the storerooms are all tucked in under a very fine hill, while the kitchen, the study, and a delightful front porch are quite snug under tile and stone." 

Merry and Pippin sat very still at opposite ends of the bench, their wondering looks shifting from each other to the extraordinary hobbit underneath that extraordinary hat. Her own gaze was still focused over the river. 

"Your Great Uncle Saradas owned a large amount of land in those parts and kept the place as a retreat from this busy warren. When he died, his son Seredic brought his family to live there and they farmed the parcel that ajoins the Bywater. But he's moved his fields to Frogmorton. So, the cottage is empty and now belongs to me. And since I have no need whatsoever for it, I shall deed it to the two of you." She looked from one startled face to another from under a particularly daring fringe of autumn shallots. "You may do what you please with the fields. Quite a few acres will belong to you, not less than 30 or 40, I believe, of various sorts and plots. And I'm sure the families round about would be more than happy to find work closer to home." Her sharp nod set a row of tiny eggplants swaying to and fro, their imminent escape blocked by a cleverly placed rutabaga. "There's a small farm across the road a mile or so. The farmer's wife used to do for Seredic's bunch twice a week. I'll send word to her, for I expect she'll be very happy to take you two on. Not one to stand on ceremony, Mrs. Marshwood. And not much of one for nonsense, either, so take heed, my lads." 

The vegetable bin gave a little shiver as Great Aunt Fresythia stood up and turned. "You'll be heading for Great Smials tomorrow. Leave word with Esmeralda about what should be packed and sent on to the cottage. Put Freddy on it. Or Camberic and that Noddy. They'll need something to do when you're gone and they might as well keep busy." Gently pulling aside a stray bit of parsley, she aimed a broad smile at both young hobbits. "You will do very well, I have no doubt. I expect to be quite bowled over." 

And without further ado, she strode away up the lawn, baby squash aglow in the bright afternoon sun. 

* * *

Much later that evening, two young hobbits sat sprawled on the steps of the second Front Door of Brandy Hall, deliciously tired and nearly ready for one last loud supper. The far edge of the sky shone a vivid orange as the last sliver of sun hovered just above the horizon. 

"I don't know, Merry... First she goes and discovers that there's anything to discover at all..." Pippin shook his head and grinned. "...and then she goes and justs waves her hand and everything's fine. You'd think she'd got a magic ring like Frodo's..." 

"Hush!" Merry gave the fingers laced within his own a hard squeeze, ignoring the answering squawk. "What's the matter with you? You're not to mention that unless we're very much alone!" 

Pippin stared at Merry, swiveled his gaze up and down and all around, then stared again. "You great lump, we _are_ alone." 

Merry stared back for a moment, then laughed softly. "Bless me but Aunt Fresythia was right: I _was_ waiting for you." 

"Well, yes, I expect so, since I'm the only one with any sense between us." Pippin was still staring. "For instance, why are we still sitting out here instead of in a nice, warm room with a nice, big table full of nice, warm food in front of a nice, big fire?" He pulled his hand free, crossed his arms and glared. 

"Because, my dear Pippin...," Merry drew himself up seriously. "...we are trying to be romantical, like all of the best couples are supposed. And I'll not have you ruin my glorious Brandybuck sunset, created specially for this evening, just because you, in your great and aged wisdom, wish merely to fill your stomach with more than you can possibly..." 

But at this point, Pippin, knowing that he must at all costs nip this flow of prose in the bud, sprang a very fine kiss upon Merry, who in turn decided, after no more than a moment's consideration, that he knew a good thing when it found him. 

End.


End file.
